twisty. a bit stiff in the joints. not a fiction. always walking away from something, including myself. always down the road in that sense or, metaphorically, in the motorcycling sense, ie a spill of one sort or another. quite short. physical stamina long gone. very angry even now but able to sleep most nights, which is new. don’t listen to music much any more. hate all the same things I hate here, also some others; love all the same things I love here, also some others. would not be psychologically safe without the efforts of the people who love me. losing the constant war with cake. losing the constant war on chocolate. afraid of death. afraid of pain. afraid of loss. desperately admire most dogs but only as long as I don’t have to own one. after long experience admire only some cats. try to be decent. never danced much. decline in ability to focus obsessively seems to have led to increased success. don’t describe things in the world as often or as well as I used to. like machines. like big, energetic astronomical events, esp including hard x-rays. like to walk. like to jog. own a lot of specialised shoes. like silence. love a pork pie. feel frail, although that’s probably not the case yet but an imaginative casting-forward. often employ the rhetorical question “What am I like?”, meaning how can anyone be this fucked up/absent-minded/late. keep some parts of myself severely to myself, am thus able to maintain a deep fruitful disjunction between this real world & the real real world. always a fiction. sixty nine years old in a month. no heroes. will read for cash.